


omg just let me die in peace

by overthetiber



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, F/M, Homestuck Shipping Olympics, Withdrawal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-23
Updated: 2012-06-23
Packaged: 2017-11-08 08:55:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/441429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/overthetiber/pseuds/overthetiber
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It isn't nice to bother people whose neural circuits are currently in the process of screwing them over, okay.</p><p>(Written for HSO Bonus Round 1, for the prompt "Gamzee <3 Roxy, (overcoming maybe?) drug addiction + hurt/comfort.")</p>
            </blockquote>





	omg just let me die in peace

**Author's Note:**

  * For [outcastermine](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=outcastermine).



> Prompt is [here](http://hs-olympics.dreamwidth.org/13513.html?thread=2372553#cmt2372553).

The world is burnt toast and a bathtub of pumpkin guts, the world is rotting oinkbeast butt and eyelids sleep-crust-shut. You are sober. You have been sober for six days. _Nothing will ever be good ever again_.

“I want to die,” you confess. Or, rather, moan. You are slumped against a stupid dead tomb thing and by golly gee willikers you want a goddamn bed or maybe an eyemask. One filled with cooling gel. Cooling gel that is actually Jell-O shots.

“I can fix that right up for you, sister.”

You eye Mr. Janeys Clowny Snake-Oil-Salesman Spirit Guide w/ Bonus Codpiece, a.k.a Your Wicked Brother. He eyes back. You consider, briefly, how deudly his clwas appear. 

You think a thing about hyperactive amygdalas, and atrophied hippocampuses, and maybe also the literal fuckin’ gallons of blood getting pushed all rum-tum-tum-a-tum through your bloodpusher at this very moment in time, wow Roxy, good choices good life.

You want a drink.

“Awwww, that’s so sweet. But don’t worry about it, I’m good.” Your own voice is packing peanuts squeaking over each other, fingertips squishing sawdust over packing peanuts. Squish squish.

“You sure?” he says.

“Yeah yeah, I’m fine.” Squeak squeak.

His weird purple eyes pierce you, maybe, but not like the shitty homemade earrings you contrived at age 11, when all you wanted was to be a normal girl. Took aaaaaaaages to clear out _that_ infection. Dirk talked you through the first aid procedures over webcam while you were still buzzed on preemptively downed pain meds. You’re pretty sure he left the room to barf once. No matter how his fetishes have evolved, kid used to freak the fuck out at the sight of blood.

...You really wish he were here.

Wait, what was the point of that? Right. Piercings. Not inexpert. You would barely have to disinfect that shit, it is so precise and clean. Ugh. Hope Janey gets back soon. You love her dearly, but—on the sharpness scale, girl’s a butterknife.

Because you’re an idiot, you say, “Don’t point those eyes at me, Mister.”

In response, he moves toward you. Stares at your hair, your vulnerable human lady head. Wow, scary. Wow, he’s reaching for you. Wow, Clowncock McWickedface, maybe you should back the fuck off!

You tell him so. With your fists.

…Or, well, you would. If your forehead. Was not throbbing. _So goddamn insistently_. And maybe also if your stomach didn't feel like a basin of vipers.

“Do yr worst,” you acquiesce. SQUEAKSQUISHSWQUAKEAJDJDJ

Clwa squeezing down on your shoulder. He kisses the crown of your head.


End file.
